VI.

Dead people really did rise. Supposing all the dead people in the City of
London Cemetery rose and came out of their graves and went about the
city? Supposing they walked out as far as Ilford? Crowds and crowds of
them, in white sheets? Supposing they got into the garden?

"Please, God, keep me from thinking about the Resurrection. Please God,
keep me from dreaming about coffins and funerals and ghosts and skeletons
and corpses." She said it last, after the blessings, so that God couldn't
forget. But it was no use.

If you said texts: "Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night."
"Yea, though I walk through the City of London Cemetery." It was no use.

"The trumpet shall sound and the dead shall arise ... Incorruptible."

That was beautiful. Like a bright light shining. But you couldn't think
about it long enough. And the dreams went on just the same: the dream of
the ghost in the passage, the dream of the black coffin coming round the
turn of the staircase and squeezing you against the banister; the dream
of the corpse that came to your bed. She could see the round back and the
curled arms under the white sheet.

The dreams woke her with a sort of burst. Her heart was jumping about and
thumping; her face and hair were wet with water that came out of her
skin.

The grey light in the passage was like the ghost-light of the dreams.